


Bloodsong

by Ballades



Series: Untold Stories of Thedas [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Apostates, Blood Magic, Gen, Kirkwall, Maleficar, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Post-Trespasser, Terrible Choices, alternate uses for blood magic, blood moon sequel, magic headcanons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-04-30 23:55:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5184506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ballades/pseuds/Ballades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lark was not the only apostate in that tiny village by the Waking Sea.</p><p>Meet Wren and Sparrow, heirs to Lark's legacy.</p><p>(Apologies, I have decided not to update this one.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> 14 Justinian, 9:45 Dragon

"Once upon a time," the mother begins.

"Oh!" The little girl draws the covers up to her chin and wiggles down into the mattress. "Is this my story, mama?"

"Your story, my sweet?" The mother's head tilts to the side. "About how you were born?"

The little girl nods so fiercely that her hair begins to tangle upon the pillow. The mother sighs and reaches out a hand, combing her fingers through the dark locks as best she can.

"Yes, mama. My story. About how the lark came and helped you. And how she sang and made things stop hurting."

The mother smiles, and sees it mirrored in her daughter's eyes. Almost black they are, much like Lark's, large and deep in color, like fertile earth. "All right, my little sparrow. Is this the story you want on your birthday, then?"

"Yeah!" The little girl nods again, her hair tangling once more. "My story! The lark's birthday, and mine!"

The mother settles onto her daughter's bed, the dune grass in the mattress crackling beneath her weight. "Well," she says, "it was a night a lot like this."

"Mama," her daughter says disapprovingly. "It's still light out."

The mother chuckles. "Yes, you're right. But if I told you your story when you were actually born then I would have to wake you, because you were born in the blackest part of night. There were so many stars that they spun when I looked at them, and the moons were nowhere to be seen. It was myself and the stars, and Lark, when I got to her door."

"The lark, mama."

"Yes, Sparrow mine. The lark. Did you know how big my belly was when your birthing time came?" The mother pauses to hold her hands out in front of her, her fingers tracing over the memory, curving over the low, tight roundness of her body, the way it protruded, how she couldn't see her feet.

"This big, my sweet. _This_ big." 

Sparrow giggles. "And now I'm this big!" She kicks her legs; the covers tent and slip downwards in half a blink of an eye. The mother feels the warm air gusting out.

"Do you think you could fit in my belly now?" She pushes down on her daughter's knees gently, maneuvers the blanket back up, tucks the edge between chin and chest.

"No, silly!"

“Maybe I should try?”

“Mama, _no!_ I want to hear the story!” Sparrow’s little face crumples. “It’s my birthday, and the Lark’s!” After a moment of pouting she adds, “And yours, mama.”

The mother smiles, pleased. “You remembered!”

“Happy birthday, mama,” Sparrow says, and the mother has to lean down so that she can receive a loud kiss, her cheeks smushed between two small palms and ten little fingers.

“Thank you, my sweet. Thank you so much, my lovely. Happy birthday to you as well.” The mother hugs her daughter, inhales for a moment the scent of her daughter’s hair, searching for any note of the milky baby smell that might be left behind. She doesn’t find it. It’s almost four years gone, and won’t be coming back. 

“Are you ready for the rest of your story?”

“I already said yes!” Sparrow kicks her feet, annoyed.

“The stars were spinning in the sky, and I was so big and hurt so much I could barely walk. Your father hadn’t yet come back from the hunt, and I had no help. Lark - “

“The lark - “

“- the lark heard me outside her door, sweet, and she woke right up like she hadn’t been sleeping at all. She came and got me, and you know what, little bird?”

“What?” Sparrow asks, her eyes shining.

“She sang you right out. You were in trouble, see. We both were. I didn’t know it then, but when my waters broke there was also something wrong with them. There was blood in the water, our blood, and there isn’t supposed to be. So the lark told me to squat down, and she put her hands right under my dress… what is it?”

Sparrow makes a face. “You weren’t wearing pants.”

The mother laughs. “No, sweet! How else would you come out? The lark put her hands on the ground then with her palms up, and she sang you right out. Just opened her mouth and out came the most beautiful song, and you were so entranced you didn’t even cry when you were born. You didn’t cry, and there was hardly any blood on you at all.”

“Are babies bloody when they’re born?” Curiosity this time on Sparrow’s face, not disgust. The mother smiles to herself.

“Oh yes. Very bloody, and there’s blood for the mama too afterward. But there was barely any blood, because the lark was taking care of us, keeping us strong after she sang you out. And that’s how you were born under a blanket of stars, with larksong and silence, in the middle of the summer. The best birthday present ever.”

Sparrow puts the hem of her blanket in her mouth and chews on it. “I think I can still hear the song, mama.”

“Is that so?” The mother kisses Sparrow’s nose. “Where do you hear it?”

“Here,” says Sparrow, and touches her chest. The mother knows for a certainty that her hand is directly over her heart. “And here.”

She touches the mother, and her hand lingers over her heart as well.

“Little bird,” says the mother. She is the mother bird, Renna called Wren, round and brown and black and plain just like her namesake, easy to miss. But Wren had not missed what Lark had done that night, had not missed the threads of red that misted into the air, had not missed the whisper of answering magic within her, had not missed the thundering joy in the bloodsong of birth. 

Wren had realized then what she was. What she is.

“Little bird,” Wren says again, taking Sparrow’s hand in hers. “I hear the song too.”


	2. 14 Justinian, 9:48 Dragon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: death, dismemberment, cremation

The village is as he remembers it, a cluster of shacks perched atop a windy cliff overlooking the sour grey of the Waking Sea.

It has been years since he was here last. Gavin has not allowed himself to think overmuch on what happened on the shore. The last seven years have been busy, blessedly so. Busy enough to allow memory to slip like quicksilver from his foremost thoughts. Busy enough that until a few months ago, his haunting had lain dormant, slumbering in mist.

He cannot lie to himself. Gavin has always prided himself on his honesty and integrity, his unerring sense of doing what is right. Doing what is right is not always doing what is desired, but the one time he would have balked, the decision had been made for him. Afterwards, the lyrium did the rest. Gavin’s eyes had turned blue for a time.

He is clean of it now, purified from it, rid of titanblood and the azure song. He is clean though the process burned as if he had been on a pyre. There was no arrow to take him to the Maker’s side when he had lain in his own sweat, the Chant shaken out of him word by word. When he had been coherent, Gavin had laughed at how unholy he had been. How unholy he is even now, standing upon dark, greedy sands that drink his bare feet down with every wash of salty, rushing foam.

Gavin yields to the thirsty beach, letting himself sink the way Lark’s blood had sunk, heavy with demonic essence. It had fallen into the grains, not even beading into sand-crusted balls, sucked down and then carried out to sea by the unrelenting tides. The cut had been clean, the only way he’d known how to do anything. Her bones, too, had burned clean; Gavin had stayed until they were white and cracked, luminous with the last rays of the summer moon. 

_Gavin, did you know there are two hundred six bones in the human body?_ Her voice was always quiet and girlish.

He had flung all two hundred six pieces of her into the sea, the smell of cooked flesh assaulting his nostrils each time he moved. His right arm was sore for days after he left; he hoped that Lark was well scattered on the ocean floor. He had packed Thea’s grimoire carefully, and took Lark’s few things with him. Gavin does not recall what happened to them. 

He pulls his feet up, staggers as he regains his balance. His horse pricks his ears as he approaches. Gavin takes the reins in hand and trudges towards the track that leads towards the village, his ears full of dunegrass whispers and calling seabirds and the constant applause from fingers of seafoam. He stays within the confines of the surf, kicking up small sprays of water, keeping his feet as cool as possible until it is time to brave the searing heat of sunbaked sand.

It is midday in midsummer. The fourteenth of Justinian. His birthday, and Lark’s.

 _Happy birthday,_ he tells himself grimly as he hikes up between the cliffs, gravel tumbling down behind him.

*** *** ***

They all ask him the same questions. _Where is Lark? Have you seen Lark? When will she come back?_ Gavin hopes that his face does not reveal too much. Unlike some people he knows, he is all too emotive. He tries not to let emotion overwhelm him. _Oh,_ the villagers say, especially the older ones. _He doesn’t know. Look at him, the poor boy._

He bristles. Gavin had ceased being a boy the second Lark’s demon-deformed head had dropped onto the sand. He had mourned cutting her hair.

Gavin stays for a while. A week, perhaps, possibly two. He re-breaks his paths to the old roosts. The community hall where he used to tell his favorite stories. The small piers where the fishing boats are tied. His old room, hastily cleared of sacks and crates. Lark’s hut, fallen to pieces at the hands of the wind and the aggregate weight of rain. Gavin visits it every day whether he likes it or not, like one possessed. As if he is making up for the years in which he refused his migration.

The door is stuck. Gavin yanks on it gingerly, afraid the whole structure will collapse. The air close to the sea is thick in the summer despite the constant current of it, and the wood used for the door has warped and swelled. For some reason Gavin wants to be inside the lean-to today, wants to rouse her ghost from the dirt and dust on the floor, wants to remember Lark’s form in the cloud patted up from the bed. If this is the last time he will visit then he should leave with something good.

“Ser Gavin?”

He turns. In his focus he has not heard them approach. Before him stands Renna called Wren, her arms a circle around a large woven basket. Her face is round as well; most of her is round, a figure comprised of curves. The only sharpness she carries lies in her large brown eyes. At her side stands little Sparrow, her black hair in braids, almost the image of her mother.

“Just Gavin, if you please. I’m not a templar anymore.” Gavin glances at the door. “Shouldn’t you be inside, out of the heat and the sun?”

Wren’s mouth is wide and full when she laughs. “Shouldn’t you?”

Gavin gestures towards his skin. The color has been enriched by the time spent outdoors, growing darker, more lively. “I haven’t any fear of burning, my lady.”

“Neither have we,” Wren replies, indicating the honeyed bronze of her own skin.

Gavin sighs to himself, delays his private moment. “You have sought me out, then. How may I help you?”

Wren shifts the basket to her hip and places her hand on her daughter’s head. She wears her uncertainty like a dress made of stinging nettles, fidgeting and passing her weight from foot to foot. “I don’t know how else to say this,” she mutters, her normally melodious voice husky, “so I’ll just be direct. Gavin, you were a templar. You’re the only one who can help. Sparrow’s been having dreams. Ones where she says she’s talking to someone a lot.”

“He’s very nice,” Sparrow pipes up.

He tries not to look alarmed. “Is it always the same person talking to you?”

“Yeah,” Sparrow answers. “Sometimes he talks to Mama, too.”

He fails at not looking alarmed. “Both of you?”

“Please,” Wren says lowly. “Before something happens to us. I’ve told Sparrow she shouldn’t tell anyone about it. I’m scared one day she will say something, and....” She swallows.

“I won’t!” Sparrow protests.

“Please,” Wren says again, softly desperate. “I can’t help her. I don’t know anything about this. But you must know someone who can help. The Chantry…”

Gavin shakes his head, his mind working, figuring out how advanced the both of them are into arcanist derangement. It is not pleasant to think about but it is the right thing to do, to bring them back. 

“Not the Chantry.” _Never the Chantry._ “I do know someone, however. She is a long ways from here, and we need to make haste so that she can protect and teach you.”

“Who?” Wren asks. “Where?”

Gavin puts aside thoughts of lyrium and abominations, ignores how vividly he recalls the sound of Lark’s body crumpling to the ground, how he had covered her face with grass and driftwood. The breeze had lifted snowy ash into the air, sent firefly embers winking in and out around him. _This is her flesh,_ Gavin had thought. _There goes her hair. This is the smell of her heart._

He will never forget the bright shine of heat on his cheeks, his tears blazing comet trails across the dark planes of his face. He knows now the sound of long bones splitting apart.

“Gavin?”

If he sets sail from the Fingers they can be in Kirkwall within the week. Kirkwall is not the best place for them to go; Gavin is not ignorant of its history, of the blood sleeping beneath the cobbled streets, the deaths lying heavy on it like great iron chains. But it is closer than any Circle except Jainen. 

“Your pardon,” Gavin says, subdued. Kirkwall is just a week away, just seven days. Just seven days of sleeping with his sword at hand, listening for the sound of cloth tearing.

“Her name is Aeveth,” Gavin tells Wren. “I will take you to Sanctuary.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments always appreciated; I try to reply to every single one!
> 
> Thank you for coming with me on another journey. Experimental again, of course. Please bear with me as I figure out the style and storytelling for this one.


	3. Mid-Solace, 9:48 Dragon

The city sings.

It sings, it shrieks. The low wails of voices dissonant and troubling carry hollow over the waves as they slide into Kirkwall’s harbor past the bent forms of the Twins, their faces lowered into clasped hands as if crying. Seagulls wheel around their heads, their calls shrill and piercing, a mockery of the weeping that taints the edges of Wren’s hearing. Wren stands at the prow of the ship, one hand white-knuckled on the railing, the other supporting Sparrow, clinging to her back. Her daughter’s unbound hair blows wild in the wind, the ends of it prickling Wren’s cheeks. Wren blinks hard, shaking away the strands.

This is the second city and the second harbor she has ever seen, and it defies her previous expectations. Jainen had been friendly with the sea, leaning open-armed towards the water as if to hear secrets whispered in the rushes of the tides. It was quaint, its many plaster-sided houses crowded cheek by jowl up to bustling piers where multicolored pennants beckoned at ships. Wren had found it pleasant even if there were too many people.

Kirkwall is angular and aloof, grim, the open mouths of the statues chiseled into its great black wall full of mutters. Gavin had said it was called the City of Chains, and at this moment Wren understands why. Beneath the murky waters of the Waking Sea there lies a giant boom-chain, slackened with long slumber, each link half as long as their ship. Wren peers at it as they sail past, follows the curve of it with her eyes until it rises ponderous from the water, ending in the hands of one of the Twins, bowed with penitence. From each link dangles a net of finer links, chains upon chains, the metal matte with chalky white seagull shit. Under the surface the links grow olive green kelp strands, drifting like a siren’s hair with each push and pull of the surf.

Sparrow is uncharacteristically quiet, craning her head around to continue staring at the heavily fortified island just beyond the harbor’s reach. “What is that place?” Wren asks Gavin once he appears on the deck.

Wren senses his hesitancy before he answers. “The Gallows.”

“And what is the Gallows?”

A muscle in Gavin’s jaw jumps. “Where the city’s Circle used to be, before it fell.”

“Used to be?”

“No longer.” Gavin looks away. “No mages live there now.”

“Do you hear that?” Wren asks him softly, their ship rising as if lifted on a swell of moans.

“I hear only the wind,” Gavin replies, giving her a narrow-eyed look. “Pardon me, they will need my assistance shortly.”

Wren waits as the ship approaches the dock, still hearing Kirkwall through the creaks of rigging and the shouts of deckhands. Gavin returns once all is secure to escort them off the deck. Sparrow plasters herself to Wren’s hip and waist when they disembark, causing them to shuffle awkwardly down the gangway. “Come on, sweet,” Wren urges her daughter. “Just a few more steps.” 

Sparrow shoves her forehead into the side of Wren’s breast, whining.

“Is it all the people? There are a lot. More than we’ve seen in our whole -”

The voices howl, a blow that staggers her. Wren collapses towards the gangway railing, deafened, Sparrow’s weight dragging her down. The ground, the city, the stones beneath her feet; all of it is suffused with suffering, a chorus of thousands screaming in unison. Wren feels as if she is falling in slow motion, her free hand grasping futilely at anything that might provide support. Her fingers brush sun-warmed metal, close upon air.

Gavin’s arms catch and steady her, guide her back to standing. “Careful there,” he says calmly. “It’s a lot, isn’t it?”

Wren closes her eyes and nods, willing the voices away. Her own voice sounds tiny and weak by comparison. “It’s...noisy. Very noisy.”

“Mama,” Sparrow whispers, clinging again. “I don’t like it.”

“I’ll be back in a moment,” Gavin says; Wren has trouble reading his expression. “Just a moment. I’ll be swift, I promise. I need to get my horse before the captain decides to seize it.” His steps clank hurried up the gangway. 

“Can you hear them, Sparrow?” Wren asks. Her head is throbbing.

“The crying people?”

Wren kneels to give Sparrow a hug. “Yes,” she says into Sparrow’s ear. “Are you scared?”

Sparrow nods. “Are you scared too?”

Wren finds to her surprise that she is not. “You know,” she replies, “I think it’s scary, but I’m not afraid. They’re just voices. Sad ones, and hurt ones, but they’re just voices, and we can do our best not to listen to them. All right? Can you - “ Wren swallows, putting her focus into reassuring her child. “Can you think about other things? Like riding on Gavin’s horse, you like that. Or looking at the shapes of the buildings? How many piers do you see, Sparrow?”

“I don’t know!”

“I’ll count with you,” Wren says. “Ready? One, two, three…”

Gavin returns as they’re estimating how many times their house can fit into a cargo ship a few piers away. “Are you all right?” he asks after he pays the captain.

Wren blows air out from between her lips, forcing the voices away again, the clamor diminishing to a muted din. “Better now. Sparrow? Any better?”

She sniffles. “Yes.” 

Gavin looks apologetic. “I’m sorry. Welcome to Kirkwall.”

“It’s ugly,” Sparrow says, sulking. “I liked Jainen better. Why can’t Aeveth live there?”

“Sparrow!” Wren exclaims, though she cannot dispute the fact. 

Gavin laughs, his teeth bright white against the rich darkness of his skin. “So it is. Even the locals will say so. Just don’t tell them to their faces that their city is less than desirable.” Good humor lights the green of his eyes. “And whenever you meet Varric, which you will eventually, definitely do not tell him the city is both ugly and smelly.”

“Who is Varric?” Sparrow asks. Gavin holds out his arms. She grasps his elbows as he lifts her onto his horse.

“A very important dwarf, and one of Aeveth’s close friends.” He shoulders his pack at the same time Wren shoulders hers. “It is still quite the distance to Sanctuary, so we may as well visit the Hightown market. Are you hungry?”

“Yeah!” Sparrow shouts, bouncing in the saddle. Gavin’s gelding rolls a placid eye back at her, but otherwise does nothing.

Gavin gathers the reins in his hand and leads them away from the waterfront. Wren says little as they push into the city, the sights and sounds overwhelming in the way they assault her weakened defenses, breaking over her head, drowning her. She does her best not to clap her hands over her ears, not to gasp as if she is floundering in water too deep. 

“Mama,” Sparrow says, reaching down. The tight pressure of her fingers against Wren’s palm is comforting.

Although it is hot and humid, people hustle unsmiling through the cobbled streets, wiping at their faces, sometimes resting briefly in the shadows created by the tall, soaring arches that span some of the alleyways. The sea breeze dwindles to nothing when they enter the city proper, stymied by the buildings crammed stiff and morose against each other. Another scent rises in its place, and Wren coughs, holding her hand to her face.

“Watch your step,” Gavin cautions her, gesturing at an unsavory something on the ground.

Wren sidesteps. There are many such unsavory somethings, and soon she thinks she will be just as adept at avoiding them as Gavin. “Is it always this unpleasant?” Wren asks, noting Gavin’s free hand resting on his sword, his normally genial expression set into hardness. He walks close to her, keeping her tightly corralled between his arm and his horse.

“Generally,” Gavin replies, sparing only a glance at a kneeling beggar with an empty bowl in front of him.

“Doesn’t he have a home?” Sparrow twists herself around to stare as they pass.

“Likely not, but there are shelters in Lowtown for him to rest his head overnight if he truly needs it.” He points towards a gate at the end of the thoroughfare; Wren can see an incline beyond it. “We’ll be going through there.”

“But he doesn’t have a place to stay?” Wren looks back.

“As I said.” Gavin walks on. “If he needs a place, he can find a place. You’ll understand after living here for a while, Wren. You and your village were kind to me, but that kindness is easily misplaced here. The Chantry should be doing the bulk of the work in helping those who need it. Personal kindness is more often than not rewarded with the opposite.”

“And what exactly are you doing?” Wren asks pointedly.

“A personal kindness,” Gavin replies, and the smile that flashes over his face carries no trace of humor.

They pass under the gate and walk up the incline, rising little by little over the muggy stench that dogs the lower part of the city. Wren sighs with relief as they ascend, rubbing her temple, unclenching her teeth.

“What’s that?” Sparrow asks, “what’s this? What about that?” Wren smiles to herself as Gavin tries gamely to answer, tailoring his responses for a eight-year-old girl with no concept of darker things. “What’s that place?” Sparrow asks once they are high enough to see an empty square in the middle of a crowded tenement. A single tree grows in the center.

“The alienage,” Gavin replies, and he takes his time with his explanation. “It’s where many of the city’s elves live.”

“Why would they want to live there?” Sparrow asks, her lip curling. “And why is there a tree?”

Wren folds her mouth into a line. “Sparrow.”

“They don’t all want to live there,” Gavin says quietly, “but many of them stay. Sometimes we cannot choose where we live. As for the tree, it’s very special to them.”

“But it’s a tree.”

“Sparrow.” Wren’s voice is firmer this time. “Gavin said it’s special to them. To say anything else would be rude. How would you feel if I took your Nuggy and said it was just a toy?”

Sparrow frowns, and her black brows draw down over smoked honey eyes. “She’s not a toy!”

“She’s special to you, isn’t she?”

Sparrow nods.

“That’s how the elves feel about the tree, then. Understand?”

Sparrow nods again. “I hope Aeveth’s house isn’t like the alienage.”

“Sparrow!” Wren’s voice snaps sharply. “Enough. Maker knows we come from a simple village by the sea. Our home isn’t much fancier than the ones you’re seeing right now.”

“Is Aeveth’s house fancy?” Sparrow asks Gavin, and Wren sighs in exasperation as the point gets lost entirely.

“Yes,” Gavin says, smiling. “Aeveth’s house is very fancy.”

*** *** ***

Sanctuary’s walls are tall and sturdy, looming more than a foot over Gavin’s head, built with rough-hewn granite in dismal greys. They stretch away from the corner, matching the length of the street, and every so often the dourness is broken up by strange markings in lurid red, the slapdash nature of the art evident in the runnels of paint dripping like fresh blood down the stones.

Wren has seen other markings like these all over Kirkwall’s architecture; some of the buildings they passed in Darktown hadn’t even a square inch of clean wall. Kirkwall, Wren thinks, is a city of violent contrasts, symbolized in the garish red-black-white graffiti that smothers the brick tenements where people live in various states of poverty. A city so rife with trade and so full of people should not have had so many poor, but the homeless are strewn everywhere, and every citizen looks angry.

Sanctuary is located atop the cliffs of Hightown, far from the dregs of the city. Here the streets are sun-drenched and clean instead of piss-drenched and filthy, the avenues wide and lined with flowers instead of narrow and lined with the unfortunate.

Sparrow skips up to the wrought iron gate, the experiences of the day temporarily forgotten. “Mama!” she shouts, then waves shyly at someone. “This isn’t a house, it’s a _castle!_ It’s so big! It’s like three hundred times bigger than our house!”

“I’m sure it is,” Wren says, pacifying. Her feet ache.

“It’s huuuuuuuge!” Sparrow keeps shouting. “It’s got horses, mama! Mama, it’s so much prettier than our house! And cleaner too!”

“You don’t know that,” Wren grumbles, thinking of the dirt on her floors.

“Mama, come look!” Sparrow hops up and down in excitement; Gavin covers his mouth, trapping his laughter inside. “It’s so biiiiig!”

“Yes thank you, that’s enough,” Wren says, not knowing, but then she reaches the gates, and is struck speechless by what she sees. The gates don’t even complain when they are hauled open, but the detail is lost as Wren stares at the multi-story manor sprawled elegantly before her. 

Wren turns to Gavin, accusatory. “You call this a house?”

Sparrow’s whoop of joy bursts from her; her feet patter away across the gravel in the courtyard. It is a safe open space, and Sparrow does as children do when confronted with it: she runs.

“Come in,” Gavin says, taking her elbow, pulling her into the grounds. 

Wren stops short, gasping. It’s as silent as a dream within the walls.

The guards greet Gavin warmly once the gate is shut. “An old friend,” Gavin says in response to one of their questions. “Of a sort. She needs Aeveth’s help.”

“Welcome to Sanctuary,” one of them tells her, his accent so thick the words are almost unintelligible. Wren nods back mutely.

She follows Gavin as he leads his horse past a flower garden, the partitioned beds forming a large pattern. Amongst the plots are benches, and on the benches sit young adults in conversation. They call out to Gavin when he walks by; he replies to each by name. “Mama, look!” Sparrow yells, capering around, her exuberance uncontainable. “Look at this! Did you see that? Look!”

Wren looks at all the things Sparrow shows her, and for once her marvel matches her daughter’s.

“We must speak to Aeveth before anything else,” Gavin says when they reach the barn, handing his horse over to an elf.

“We?” Wren says, skeptical, trying not to stare at the pointed ears, the large, luminous eyes.

“Yes, we?” the elf echoes. Her teeth show faintly when she smiles, and her smooth, light brown skin falls into laugh lines around her eyes as she addresses Gavin. “Aeveth isn’t expecting guests. At least not according to Liren.”

Gavin sighs. “Wren, this is Hillas, our stablemistress, and Liren is…” Gavin clears his throat and stands straighter. “...the dwarven woman coming our way. She’s the steward.”

Wren folds her hands in front of her and does her best bow. The dwarf takes her in, her demeanor cool and no-nonsense. Wren is suddenly aware of the drabness of her and Sparrow’s roughspun clothing, how country bumpkin they must seem. “My lady.”

“Gavin,” Liren says, only mildly rebuking, though the corners of her dark eyes crinkle with fondness. “You’ve brought guests. I haven’t accounted for them.”

“We - “ He cuts himself off. “I need to speak with Aeveth right away.”

“I bet you do,” Liren replies. “Before that, though, will you introduce me to your guests? Have they had anything to eat or drink?”

“Steward Liren,” Gavin says, “This is Wren and her daughter Sparrow. We have only just arrived, and I will be offering them refreshment shortly. If it is no trouble, we would like an appointment with Aeveth as soon as her schedule allows.”

“Well met, Wren,” Liren says, then smiles as Sparrow jumps off a mounting block with glee. 

Wren bows again, embarrassed. Sparrow clambers back up the block, eager for a repeat.

Liren tuts. “No need to bow, please.”

Gavin’s eyebrows shoot halfway up his forehead. “Do my ears deceive me? Did you just tell someone to be less formal?”

“Her Worship’s mannerisms may be rubbing off on me,” Liren says dryly, and Gavin chuckles. “Show them around, Gavin. I’ll see what I can do about the schedule.”

“Her Worship?” Wren asks Gavin in an aside once they have reached the kitchens. Gavin has called them modest, but they occupy a space at least as large as her house in the village. She and Gavin watch Sparrow as she pokes at a hand pie, trying to figure out whether it is worth eating. 

Wren takes a sip of her peppermint-infused water. Fancy indeed, but welcome after the heat. She takes a moment to relax into the silence before speaking. “You didn’t say Aeveth had a title, just that she’s your friend.”

“I didn’t lie,” Gavin replies, and he too takes a sip of water. “She is a friend. She also holds other titles, but she prefers to be more casual.”

“What other titles?”

“Enchanter, for one,” a warm voice breaks in, the vowels rounded, the enunciation crisp. “Though I have not been called that in a long time. Lady Trevelyan is another, though most will default to your Worship or Inquisitor. But I prefer Aeveth.”

“My lady!” Gavin exclaims, getting to his feet immediately.

Wren stands as well, because greeting someone who looks the way Aeveth does while sitting would be the height of rudeness. Maker’s mercy, Aeveth - the Inquisitor, Andraste help her - is every inch a highborn lady, from the way her jet black hair falls perfectly coiffed around the noble angles of her beautiful face, to the toes of her impeccably made leather boots. Wren bows deeply.

Then Aeveth smiles, and whatever gravitas she had been carrying falls away from her large brown eyes, her expression friendly and welcoming. “Please, no bowing,” she says, entering the kitchen. “Sit, sit. You must be tired from your long journey.”

Wren does so, still flabbergasted. Sparrow creeps over from her side of the table and wedges herself underneath Wren’s arm. Slender hands hold tight her skirts.

Aeveth finds a kitchen stool and brings it over. “Welcome to my home,” she says as she sits, then shakes her head at Gavin when he makes a move towards the sideboard. “What are your names?”

“Renna, but I’m called Wren, my lady.”

Aeveth sighs delicately. “And this is…?”

Wren nudges Sparrow. “Go on.”

“Sparrow,” her daughter mumbles in a way that is unintelligible to everyone but Wren.

“Her name is Sparrow,” Wren says quickly.

“That is a lovely name,” Aeveth responds, turning her smile on Sparrow. “My name is Aeveth.”

“What happened to your arm?” Sparrow blurts out.

Wren claps a hand over her daughter’s mouth, horrified. “Sparrow, no! That’s so rude! I am so sorry, my lady, I’m sorry!”

“It’s fine.” Aeveth shifts on the stool and presents her left arm. The lower half of it is gone. “Children are quite observant, aren’t they? And they are not yet bound by the rules of propriety. When they notice something, they say it immediately.” Another smile, just an upturn of her lips. “A trait I wish we adults could engage in more often. Well, Sparrow, the story of how I lost my arm is a long one. Would you like to hear it sometime? I promise it won’t be boring. It involves dragons.”

“Dragons?” Sparrow says, her eyes round with wonder.

“Dragons,” Aeveth affirms. “At least five.”

“More like ten,” Gavin mutters, to Sparrow’s exaggerated gasp. Wren gapes in disbelief.

“Well, now you’ve gone and ruined it, Gavin,” Aeveth says, laughing softly. “They’ll never believe ten or twelve dragons. Five was a better hook.”

“The count is fourteen, your Worship,” and Wren barely keeps her eyes from falling out of her head at the sight of the tall, handsome man standing framed in the doorway, his features as pleasing as Aeveth and Gavin’s. No plainness to be found at Sanctuary, Wren thinks sourly, except for herself.

Aeveth heaves a dramatic sigh. “I did not think you could ruin it more, but you have. Fourteen dragons, Michel, honestly.”

“It is the truth, your Worship.” The corners of the man’s mouth quirk up in a slight smile.

“Fourteen, truly?” Sparrow exclaims breathily.

“Yes.” Aeveth gives the blond man - Michel - an affectionate look. “But this tale will have to wait. I am presently more interested in your story. Where do you come from? Somewhere close to Orlais, am I correct? Your accent is more like Gavin’s and less like Michel’s. Hints of Orlesian, but with flatter tones, like the dwarves.”

“My lady,” Gavin begins.

“Not you too,” she interrupts, then gestures for him to continue.

Gavin’s lips press together, his expression wry. “You are correct. Their village is on Waking Sea, about halfway between Jader and Jainen.”

Aeveth hums. “And what compelled you to bring them here?”

“Duty.”

Aeveth cocks both eyebrows. “Duty?”

“They are mages, my lady.” At this, Aeveth stiffens. “Wren asked me to help them before anything...untoward happened. I thought it best to bring them to you.”

“You didn’t send word, Gavin.” Aeveth’s voice is low; it’s Sparrow she studies. 

“I also thought it best to ask forgiveness instead of beg permission.”

Michel snorts.

“Did you think I would refuse you?” The question is barely audible. Aeveth does not wait for an answer. “How old are you, Sparrow?”

Wren has to prod her again. “Eight,” Sparrow says eventually. “I’m eight.”

Something fractures in Aeveth’s eyes then, sweeping her composure away until her mouth tightens with pain. “Only eight,” she says, hushed, sad.

“I’m a big girl!” Sparrow declares.

“Yes, you are.” Aeveth rises to her feet, the legs of the stool scraping against the wooden floor. “Gavin, go get Liren and tell her to prepare the Tower for Wren and Sparrow. Sanctuary will be their home for the foreseeable future. Pardon me, please. I will see you all at dinner.” 

She makes her abrupt exit without further explanation, her strides brisk, the heels of her boots clicking smartly. They echo down the hall, islands in the sudden silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to the tough writing and the profound unhappiness with many things. Comments, flames, critiques, etc. always appreciated.


	4. Early August, 9:48 Dragon

Aeveth parts the Veil like a hand through pouring water, her thoughts sliding it apart with understated elegance. She is elegant in everything she does, Wren notices, from how she carries herself to the way she speaks, to how she pulls at the Fade, beckoning it forth. The subtle glow of her magic surrounds her fingers, brightening the air.

“The Veil,” Aeveth says quietly, her eyes not on Wren but on her hand. She flips it over and back, thoughtful. “Most people think of it as a barrier that keeps this world and the Fade apart. It does, and that’s the simple explanation, but it’s less a barrier and more of...a repulsion.” The glow fades, and Aeveth lifts her gaze to Wren. “All of us have the innate ability to breach the Veil, save for the dwarves. When we sleep, we mine the Fade for our dreams. In a way, we are all mages. We all do the impossible, and our dreams are so vivid they seem real.”

“Auntie Aeveth,” Sparrow interrupts. “I’m hungry.”

Aeveth purses her lips. “We have barely begun, Sparrow.”

“Mama,” Sparrow says, “I’m hungry.”

“I heard you the first time, sweet.” Wren sighs. She’s doing a lot of that these days. “Are you really hungry? Didn’t I just feed you?”

“Here.” Aeveth walks to another part of the garden, her steps brisk, the hem of her linen dress flapping behind her. She stops in front of the large central pergola and beckons them over. Honeysuckle and sambac jasmine cluster thickly on trellises that frame the entryway, scenting the breeze as it stirs the pair of hammocks anchored on the pergola’s columns.

Sparrow reaches Aeveth before Wren does, cocking her head to the side as Aeveth plucks a blossom of honeysuckle from the bush. “These won’t fill your stomach,” Aeveth says, lowering the flower for Sparrow to take. “Hold this at the narrow part - gently, don’t crush it. Just enough to…”

With a pinch of her fingers Aeveth separates the base from the style, then pulls the style out so slowly that a bead of nectar gathers on it. “These won’t fill your stomach,” she repeats herself, “but they’ll keep you occupied for a while. Have you ever tasted honeysuckle?”

Sparrow shakes her head no. “It doesn’t grow near the ocean,” Wren explains. “The plants we foraged were seaweed and different sea grasses.”

“Try it,” Aeveth says to Sparrow, indicating the protruding style. Sparrow takes the end, then eyeballs the flower cautiously before sticking her tongue out.

“Oh!” Sparrow exclaims. “It’s sweet!”

“Indeed,” Aeveth says, removing another flower from the bush. She uses her teeth to pull out the style, pursing her lips around the nectar drawn up the style, a smile flitting over her lips. “Now, Sparrow, watch closely. You as well, Wren.”

Aeveth stoops and places the flower on a slate flagstone. “Are you watching?”

“I am!” Sparrow says. “What’s going to happen?”

“Pay close attention.” She indicates the flower. 

Wren senses something being cut open, precise and subtle. Aeveth’s lightly-tilted brown eyes cloud over faintly with white.

There is the soft puff of flame sprouting to life. The honeysuckle crumples and falls into ash; Sparrow gasps with her whole body.

“Remember everything about what you just saw,” Aeveth instructs them. “Because your task today is to do exactly that.”

“I don’t understand,” Wren says. “How?”

“The Fade is a realm of possibility.” Aeveth hands Sparrow more flowers. “It is not a place only for dreams, or spirits, or demons. We draw upon it to give our thoughts substance. Which means, in short, if you can imagine it, then the magic happens.” Aeveth holds her palm out and accepts a flower from Sparrow. Slowly the petals stiffen, frosting white.

“Then we can do anything?” Wren asks. “Anything, so long as we think about it hard and wish for it to be true?”

Aeveth smiles. Fire devours the flower; Aeveth blows the ash away. “There are a few rules. First, we may not bring anyone back from the dead. Second, what happens here must follow the laws governing this world. I cannot imagine a lake and have it appear, nor can I - Sparrow, are you paying attention? - nor can I imagine myself a banquet table full of sweets.”

“Aw,” Sparrow sulks, disappointed.

“But I can imagine lightning in an attack, or a barrier to protect myself, or fire to destroy my enemies.” The hairs on Wren’s arm lift as static crackles around Aeveth’s hand, dancing up her forearm. “Though that isn’t your task today. Trying to duplicate what I have done is already a difficult enough task for the two of you. Your magic has not manifested yet, has it?”

“I don’t think so,” Wren replies.

Aeveth wears a thoughtful look, her squared jaw jutting slightly to the side. “For Sparrow that is not unexpected. The magic often appears between the ages of six and twelve, and Sparrow is eight. You, however…” She cocks a finely-groomed black eyebrow. “No magic manifested, even at your age? What was it that you did in your village, Wren?”

“I was a healer, before Lark came,” Wren says. “And after, I suppose. I tended the small things. Cuts, births, broken bones, coughs. If someone fell seriously ill we would take them to the chantry. I also was an herbalist, though I’m not much use here where the plants are different.”

“Not so different,” Aeveth says, gesturing to the patch of elfroot growing on the other side of the garden. “And I’m sure you’ll be of use. My talents do not lie in the care of the sick and the wounded.” A hint of a smile plays around her mouth. “Adan lacks bedside manner, and he is often working in the shop. Having you around will be wonderful.”

Wren nods. “Thank you, my lady.”

“Wren, I’ve said there’s no need.”

“All right,” Wren acquiesces.

Aeveth glances at the flowers scattered by Sparrow’s feet. “I find myself intrigued by your history, Wren. Truly, there has been no manifestation? No significant emotional event, no desperate prayer miraculously answered, nothing?”

Sparrow’s birth, Wren thinks, but that magic had been Lark’s. “Just the voice,” she says, glancing at her daughter.

“The voice,” Aeveth repeats. “Gavin mentioned. What does it say to you?”

“It doesn’t really say much.” Wren wakes up with only faint memories of a voice and a melody, not the words that were spoken. Sanctuary mutes most everything. “More feelings, like calmness, and the confidence that I can do anything.”

Aeveth turns to Sparrow. “And you? Does it say anything to you?”

“I don’t know,” Sparrow answers, fidgeting.

Aeveth sighs. “And you’re sure this is the same voice?”

“Well...no,” Wren says. “But that’s my gut feeling.”

“I suppose we’ll find out soon enough what it is,” Aeveth says, then plucks a flower off the bush. “Wren, why don’t you try first?”

Wren tries. She tries and tries, imagines fire consuming the flower, imagines the petals edged in glowing lines, melting into soot. She tries for what feels like hours, tries until Sparrow goes to lie exasperated in the hammock, tries until Aeveth sends Sparrow to the kitchens with Hillas. She tries without any result, tries until Sparrow returns with a basket of food, tries until sections of the honeysuckle bush have been stripped, the ground carpeted in golden yellow, a sunset at their feet.

“I think that’s more than enough for today,” Aeveth says mildly. 

Wren clenches her jaw, sensing the Veil buzzing just beyond her reach. “I feel like I almost have it.”

“Perhaps tomorrow,” Aeveth tells her. “We are in no rush. You and Sparrow are safe here in Sanctuary. Rest well tonight, and we’ll try again. You are hardly the first nor the last apprentice to face failure. The magic will always come out.” Aeveth smiles sadly, her expression far-off for a moment. “Remember that. The magic will always come out. It isn’t a matter of whether it will, only a matter of when. You are guaranteed to do this, and when it happens I will be here to guide you.”

Wren goes to one of the hammocks to sit, her body sagging in the netting. She wipes sweat away from her temple. “Hardly the first nor the last, but definitely the oldest.”

“That isn’t a bad thing,” Aeveth says gently, offering her hand. Coolness swirls around her, undoubtedly magical in nature. “You’ve had a life to live, experiences in the world which have made you who you are. In a way you have an advantage. I will not call you lucky, but I confess I am envious of the years you had which belonged wholly to you.”

Wren thinks on Aeveth’s words as she follows her to the dining hall, remembers that she had been a Circle mage. Freedom, she decides, tastes like gratitude.

*** *** ***

Wren prepares Sparrow for bed when the disk of the sun is four fingers away from the horizon, scolding her when she splashes madly in her bath like an insulted bird fluffing her feathers. “Sparrow, stop it.”

Sparrow grumbles and ignores her. “Why can’t I stay up longer?” she asks, petulant, before smashing her face into the surface of the water. Bubbles churn up to the surface.

Wren waits until Sparrow extricates herself before answering. “Because you’re acting like this. It’s time for bed.”

“No,” Sparrow pouts, then splashes more water out of the tub. 

Wren jerks herself back to avoid getting wet. “Sparrow,” she says, keeping her voice even, though she’s tired and short-tempered and wants nothing more than to sit comfortably by herself in a large room. Maybe with a glass of wine, since she sees Michel and Aeveth do that fairly often, cozy in each other’s company. 

“Enough. It’s time to sleep. And stop getting water out of the tub. I had to haul all of that up here.”

Sparrow gets mouthy, which leads to sharp words and tears. Wren thins her lips and does her best to cap her frustration, but winds up with a more contentious tone than she would like. “Do you want a song or not?!” she asks testily as Sparrow flails about, shouting that she’s a fish. There’s likely more water out of the tub than in.

“I do!”

“Then quit splashing and hold still so I can scrub you. Then we can rinse off and clean your teeth and you can have your song.”

“Mama,” Sparrow says, sitting up straight, “I love the lark’s song.”

“I know,” Wren sighs. “I know.”

Sparrow behaves herself for the rest of the bedtime process, and in short order Wren is combing out her daughter’s hair, separating the thick, heavy waves of it into two sections for plaiting. “You know,” she says just as the comb snags. Sparrow makes a face. “Maybe it’s time to cut your hair. It’ll be easier to take care of, and cooler for you besides.”

“Can I have my song now?”

“What about your hair, sweet?” Tangles, so many tangles. Wren hisses air in through the corners of her mouth as Sparrow twists around to see her.

“I like it the way it is. I want my song.”

Wren heaves what must be her millionth sigh, her fingers braiding swiftly. “All right, in bed with you while I open the windows to let the moisture out.” It helps only marginally, and Wren is forced to open all the doors as well, creating a cross breeze that blows through their suite and into the hallway beyond. She tucks Sparrow in, then takes a seat next to the daybed. There is no second bedroom in the Tower, so Sparrow sleeps in the living area.

“My song,” Sparrow reminds her, as if Wren would have forgotten something she does several times a week.

Wren clears her throat and relaxes her jaw, finds the space in her so she can spin out the pure vowels needed for Elvhen. Her voice is a bit breathy and rough when she begins, catching on the memories of a youthful, pale face with large, sorrowful eyes. “ _Elgara vallas, da’len, melava somniar._ ”

But it strengthens as she goes, warming quickly. Wren’s voice has deepened since having children, and what was once clear and bright is now mellower and richer, silver-lined instead of pure silver. “ _Dirthara lothlenan’as,_ ” Wren sings, and Sparrow closes her eyes and burrows down into the cushion. “ _Bal emma mala dir._ ”

Wren places her hand on Sparrow’s forehead, her thumb stroking gently between her daughter’s eyebrows as the closing words near. “ _Ara ma’athlan vhenas,_ ” and she can tell Sparrow is drifting off. Wren drops her voice into her chest, feeling it resonate through her bones and her teeth. _“Ara ma’athlan vhenas._ Good night, my sweet.”

“Don’t be afraid,” Sparrow murmurs, eyelids fluttering.

“What was that?” Wren asks, confused.

“The voice,” Sparrow mumbles. “It says ‘don’t be afraid.’”

Wren rises onto her knees and kisses Sparrow on the cheek, quelling the knowing jolt in her chest. “All right. Good night, sweet.”

“Good night, mama.”

A shadow outside the door catches her attention. Wren levers herself onto her feet using the arm of the daybed, wincing as bloodflow is restored. She walks gingerly over to see who it is.

“Ser Michel,” Wren says, surprised. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

He pushes gracefully away from the wall, and his face gives nothing away as he regards her. “Is your child asleep?”

“Not yet, but almost.” The flickering light of the hall sconces reflects in Michel’s eyes, and it only serves to make his gaze more intense, uncomfortable. Michel has been polite but not friendly since she and Sparrow began living at Sanctuary; their paths do not often cross. There isn’t any reason for him to be here.

“Close the door then. I do not wish to disturb her.”

Wren pulls the door almost all the way shut, leaving a sliver to avoid the click of the latch. “Was there something you needed, Ser Michel?”

He speaks deliberately, and if Wren didn’t know any better she would call it halting. But he isn’t the type to stutter or stumble, not in speech nor in movement. “The song you were singing. Where did you learn it?”

Wren smiles, but it does nothing to ease the brewing unease between them. It strikes her then, sends a chill creeping insect-like between her shoulderblades: Michel does not like her. Nonetheless, she answers the question. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? My midwife taught it to me.”

Michel’s tone is flat. “Your midwife.”

“Yes,” Wren says. “It’s the song she sang when Sparrow was born, and the song she sang every day for the first month of Sparrow’s life. I learned the words by the time she left.”

“Was your midwife elven?”

“Now, how did you know I was singing in Elvhen?” Wren asks, teasing. Michel remains unresponsive. “No, she wasn’t elven. Elf-blooded, though. A gifted healer from the Circle. Gavin knew her.” Wren glances away for a moment. “I haven’t seen her since she left. I wonder what became of her. I hope she’s well, wherever she is.”

Wren blinks in alarm when she looks back to Michel, seeing the clench of his jaw, the coiled tension in his body. Although he hasn’t moved an inch, suddenly he exudes danger. Wren draws back, wary. “Why did you ask? Do you know the song? It’s very rare. Have you heard it before?”

The effort is visible as Michel speaks, his words forced. “My mother used to sing it. If you will excuse me, Miss Wren. Thank you. Good night.”

Wren stares at his retreating back, her mouth dropping open in shock as she understands belatedly what he’s just revealed.

*** *** ***

“You’re distracted today.”

Wren groans and lowers herself into the hammock, flops backward once her seat is secure. She’s spent the entirety of the morning trying uselessly to visualize the flower in flames - any flower at this point would do - but has so far been unsuccessful, much like yesterday.

“Hand gestures may help,” Aeveth had told her around mid-morning, “though for me - “ Her smile had turned bitter. “- I have had to learn to do without.”

The only hand gesture Wren can think of now is a crass one. “I’m frustrated, is what.” Wren finds the ground with her toes and kicks off, swinging. In the distance, she sees Sparrow perched on Gavin’s gelding as he walks them in circles.

“Maybe I’m not a mage. Maybe I’m just imagining things.”

Aeveth casts her a disapproving look. “You know you aren’t imagining things, and you know you have magic.”

Wren mutters an unladylike swear. Between her and Aeveth, the vulgarity comes from Wren. “I’m not imagining things, and I have magic.” 

If only the magic of the Fade were as easy to sense as the magic of the body, as demonstrated by Lark. Wren can hear the swells of Aeveth’s heartbeat if she but listens closely, can match it with her voice and conquer it if she tried. But Wren isn’t stupid. She wouldn’t dare reveal that information.

“And you are distracted. Do you need some time for a break? I think hiding in the cellar with mint water sounds lovely right now.” 

Wren digs her toes into the ground and pushes. The hammock creaks as it moves. “A break sounds good. I’m sorry, Aeveth. I’m tired.”

She waves it off. “You should be after all that effort. Unless you’re more tired than that.” Aeveth sends her a keen, appraising stare. “What happened?”

“Didn’t sleep so well last night.” Wren had gone to bed and tried to read, but could only think of the conversation she’d had with Michel. Who was he truly? What had she done? Did his dislike extend to Sparrow? And where was Lark? 

When Wren had finally dozed off she could barely hear the voice of the spirit; whatever it said had been unintelligible low murmurs. “I…”

“Is something troubling you?” Aeveth’s lightly-tilted brown eyes are full of concern. “If there is something amiss, please tell me. Tearing the Veil in an emotional state can attract demons. I did say Sanctuary is safe, and for most people it is, but the wards I have set are not unbreakable.”

Wren takes a deep breath, then pushes herself up to sitting. “It’s about Ser Michel.”

Aeveth’s eyebrows lift a fraction. When her chest rises in a slow inhale, sunlight glitters off a thin silverite chain around her neck. “Ser Michel?”

Wren nods. “Has he said anything to you?”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow, Wren. What would he say to me?”

“About me.”

Aeveth’s eyebrows climb higher on her forehead, her skin kissed light brown by the sun. “About you? No, he has not said anything about you.”

A sigh, her shoulders relaxing. “All right. We spoke last night.” Aeveth says nothing, so Wren continues. “He overheard me singing an elvish lullaby. He didn’t receive it well.”

“That must be why he was so out of sorts.” Aeveth crosses her right arm over her chest, holding onto her left shoulder. “What did he tell you?”

“He asked me where I learned it, and said his mother used to sing it to him.” Wren watches as Aeveth receives the news, unmoving. She obviously already knows; she ought to, as his wife.

“And what,” Aeveth says slowly, “did you tell him regarding where you learnt it?”

At least to Aeveth, Wren feels like she can tell the truth. Most of it, at least. “My midwife was an elf-blooded Circle mage who ran away with Gavin during the rebellion. Her name is Lark.” When Aeveth doesn’t move yet again, Wren keeps talking. “She sang it a lot. It’s the song that Sparrow was born to, and the song she sang to Sparrow in the first month of her life. Sparrow still asks for me to sing it at - “

And then Wren cuts off, her eyes widening, the breath freezing in her throat.

“Wren?” Aeveth asks, tilting her head to make eye contact. “Wren, are you all right?”

“I just remembered,” Wren says, her voice hushed. “I remember what the voice says.” It’s heavily muted here in Sanctuary, but if Wren strains she can hear whispers through the low buzz of the Veil.

“What does it say, Wren?”

Wren doesn’t acknowledge Aeveth. She stoops swiftly to pluck a withered flower from the ground, lets it lay on her palm. “You are not afraid,” she tells it. “I. I am not afraid.”

She has never been.

The whisper grows, and Wren hums a note. The Veil presses around her hand, but then Wren adjusts her pitch and everything is expanding, building harmonics. Wren’s sense of herself amplifies as she aligns with the Veil and blasts it open. The Fade pours in from all directions, rounding out in her as if she is a perfectly struck bell. 

A spark of golden light floats into the air above the flower. _Fire_ , Wren thinks, seeing in her mind’s eye the blackening edges of the petals curling in, nibbled away by a line of hungry orange.

“I am not afraid,” Wren declares, and the bloom of honeysuckle becomes a living flame in her hand. The golden spark expands, shimmering, begins to take on a shape she knows instinctively is the spirit who speaks to her.

“Close it out, Wren.” Aeveth’s melodious voice is calm. The weight of Aeveth’s hand on her shoulder followed by a sharp jerk breaks Wren from her trance. “Let it slip away, let the Veil fall back between the worlds. Let the earth and the air you breathe and the body you wear be more of you than what beckons from the other side.”

Wren does as Aeveth instructs, drips the image of the flame away, blanks the pitch of the Veil and the Fade from her head, squeezes her lips shut. _I am not afraid_ , she thinks. The Veil reasserts itself, jostling against itself until it phases back into consonance.

The spirit is the last to dissipate, sparkling motes vanishing as they pass through a beam of summer sun.

Wren sits down hard, shaking. “I did it.”

Aeveth sits down beside her, shaken. A pattern in incandescent white fades from the ground. “You did it.”

“That spirit,” Wren says, leaning back on weakened arms. “That’s the one who speaks. Did it try to come through? Did I call it? What does it mean?”

“To answer your questions in the order they were asked,” Aeveth replies, “it did not fully come through. You attracted it, but did not call it through, and that is why it retained its form instead of becoming a demon. As for what it means?” 

Aeveth gives her a faint smile. “It seems that you are a spirit healer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a long layoff I finally picked this up again; I apologize for all the rust. There was a lot of thinking and working through that needed to be done, and I'm not sure I managed to successfully handle every thread. Oh well, if you have any issues please let me know. Comments and questions are always welcome, as is criticism and rotten fruit.


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